


Eleven Fifty-Nine

by CommanderTabbyCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, New Year's Eve, Romance, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderTabbyCat/pseuds/CommanderTabbyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's true that Sherlock is not generally given to making New Year's resolutions. Always found the whole exercise rather pointless. But he's made one this year, besides cleaning out the fridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleven Fifty-Nine

**Author's Note:**

> Readers will note that I fail completely to offer up any explanation of how John's marriage came to an end and side-step the whole Watson baby issue, and indeed pretty much all of S3's cliffhangers completely. Feel free to fill in the gaps with whatever theory most appeals. 
> 
> Happy 2015!

It's been a year.

A year since his return, since Mary, since Sherlock's plane turned around. Nine months since John's marriage ended for good, since John showed up on Sherlock's doorstep with a couple of suitcases and Sherlock felt concern and, somewhere underneath that, a small, private thrill of happiness. 

They're into the final hour, John spread out contentedly in his armchair, glass of scotch in hand (he rarely drinks nowadays, Sherlock has noticed, nowhere near as much as he used to. Special occasions like tonight have become an exception to the general rule.) Sherlock somewhat restless, kneeling up in his own armchair one minute, springing out of it to listlessly walk around the flat and peruse the fireplace the next. They haven't bothered to take down the Christmas decorations yet (decorations which Sherlock had actually deigned to assist in putting up this year) so their little tableau is illuminated by a string of pinecone-shaped multicoloured lights, and a few scatterings of greenery. The skull, in what has become something of a yearly tradition, is still sporting a Santa hat. 

They're doing well.  
They've had their hurdles to overcome in the past year. Confrontations, arguments, reconciliation. More apologies (mostly on Sherlock's side.) It has come to occur to him fully the effect that his actions have had on John. For this he will continue to try to make amends, for as long as it takes.  
Besides that, they've gradually regressed into their old routine. Solving crimes and rounding the evening off with dinner (John has started to grumble about the cost of eating out so often, but it's a habit that neither of them seems capable of shaking.) On their nights in they watch films- always chosen by John, always derided by Sherlock (but occasionally capturing his interest more than he'd care to admit.) 

If Sherlock is rather more considerate, more honest, less inclined to make unilateral decisions without seeking John's consent, neither of them mention this. But, although they haven't told each other as such, they have both got to a point where they are, if not ecstatic, then at least contented, where they want to be.

But still, after all this time, there are things left unsaid.  
John is still wearing his reindeer jumper. Taken by itself, Sherlock would declare the thing horrendous, but on John, somehow, it works. Sherlock is not going to admit that everything works on John, that John could wear a grubby burlap sack and Sherlock would still find him...

Oh, god. No, no, he can't go off on a tangent like this now.  
'So,' John interrupts his thoughts, smiling lazily. 'It hasn't been a bad year, all things considered.'  
'Really?' This is certainly news to Sherlock. 'I would've thought, with your marriage ending...'  
John shrugs. 'I think it was always going to happen. I think I stopped loving her altogether after... well, after she shot you.'  
Sherlock nods in acknowledgement. Not the easiest thing to come back from, surely.  
'After that it was only a matter of time. And it's good to be back here. With you.'  
Sherlock can feel himself smiling, involuntarily, at that. Why does John have to have this kind of effect on him?  
John sips his scotch, 'Have you made any resolutions?'  
Sherlock's failure to respond straight away prompts John to laugh. 'No, silly of me. You don't do that sort of thing.' John raises his glass. 'Well, anyway, here's to an even better one.'  
Sherlock swallows; nods.  
It's true that he's not generally given to making New Year's resolutions. Always found the whole exercise rather pointless. But he's made one this year. Well, two. The first - to clean out the fridge - was the result of a bet with his landlady that he wasn't up to the task. But it's the second, the one he'd planned for tonight, that he's concerned with now.

The trouble is, he has absolutely no idea how to carry it out.  
He's gone through this conversation enough times in his head, with enough variations on the exact words ('John, I've realised over the course of the time we've spent together that my feelings for you go beyond...' 'John, I was wondering whether you'd consider the possibility...' 'John, what would you say if I told you...') He can never sufficiently predict the results.

It had all began... well, he's actually not certain of when it began. (That's frustrating too, in itself. He would've liked to have been able to study the phenomenon, to keep a record, to collect data. He may never fall in love again, after all. He likely won't.) Certainly there was _something ___from the very beginning; A connection, a spark, from the off, since John had called his abilities 'amazing', since John had shot the cabbie. There had been a desire to impress this man, a certain... contentedness in his company that he rarely experienced with anyone. But certainly platonic, at least at the time. At the time, he'd meant the remark about being 'married to his work'.  


That was the thing, though. He'd realized that part rather soon after the beginning - it was always going to be John Watson. It didn't matter in what capacity, really - romantic, sexual, platonic - it was always going to be him.  


He wishes he'd known he was going to fall in love, though, as their connection had strengthened and the friendship become more strongly established. If he'd known, he sometimes thinks, perhaps he could have done something about it, something to prevent all this inner turmoil. He could have seen it coming and... regulated it somehow.  
But he knows at the back of his mind, that this line of thinking is unrealistic. For one thing, in order to achieve this effect, he would probably have had to cut ties with John, and he couldn't have done that. Not back when he thought of him as a friend (back when that was what he was to him), and certainly not now. Even during his two years away, the thought that he was going to see John again was always an implicit expectation.  


In retrospect, he thinks now, his first inkling that his feelings for John were not strictly platonic had happened that night at the swimming pool.  
Previously, he'd found John's repeated insistence that they were Not A Couple to be... well, perhaps a little overly defensive, and he'd never personally understood the constant need to assure complete strangers of their situation, but it hadn't bothered him a great deal. Really, if anything, he'd found it vaguely amusing.  
But after he'd pulled the Semtex-laden jacket off John, in that breather period when they had (mistakenly) thought that the danger had passed, John's silly offhand remark about how 'people might talk' had... hurt.  


Just a little. It had only been a small pang, like a single string plucked on an instrument. Really, considering the situation they had just got out of, was it _really ___necessary to ascertain once again that John wasn't interested, would never want that kind of relationship with him, that their dynamic was absolutely and completely free from any romantic or sexual elements whatsoever?  


That had surprised him, especially considering the present circumstances. He'd dismissed it, though, as a momentary lapse; something caused by the adrenaline and the heat of the moment. Illogical, therefore not worth dwelling on.  


But the feeling hadn't gone away. Every time John played the old 'not gay, not a couple' record. There was always that little twinge of pain, the questioning over whether it was strictly necessary.  


And over time... there was more. He'd found himself wishing John would touch him more often. He was beginning to entertain the notion that if, just _if ___he were to engage in a romantic relationship with anyone, John would be a rather ideal candidate. It wouldn't change a great deal about the relationship they had presently, and it wouldn't be particularly objectionable either, in the way that entertaining that thought about anyone else would be. On the contrary, the thought was almost... pleasant.  
In retrospect, it was rather stupid of him to fail to see what was coming, when these thoughts had started to manifest themselves.  


Perhaps it was only during the weeks building up to John's wedding that he had brought himself to fully acknowledge that he was in love with John. Before that, he had had to concede that he was strongly attached to this man, to the point of almost sacrificing himself in order to keep John safe. That he was even somewhat attracted to him. But in love... no. He always switched off that thought before his brain had a chance to entertain it.  
And now... here they are.

Can he really risk it? Really, the best he's hoping for is that John will reject him gently, but agree to continue with their current arrangement. The worst outcome... he doesn't particularly want to think about. The fear of rejection - no, not just rejection, the fear that he will tell John, and John will be shocked, or put off (probably both), and will kindly take Sherlock aside and suggest that maybe they shouldn't live together, for the time being. And then they'll still see each other occasionally, work together perhaps, but it will be uncomfortable for both of them, and the waits between text messages or any other contact will become longer and longer, until eventually... 

The fear of _that ___is eating away at him. Really, he's happy to have John with him in any capacity. Anything is better than nothing, by a wide margin.  
But still... He thinks he sees something, sometimes. Something in the looks John gives him, the warmth in the smile he flashes, his protectiveness. The way John admires him, even after everything. Perhaps the occasional pupil dilation, or looks that last a little too long. It would be helpful to be able to check John's pulse more, but that's bound to arouse suspicion after a while, even if he claims it's for some unrelated experiment. It's maddening, not being able to trust his instincts, but he can't rule out the possibility of wishful thinking.

He's not sure if he can carry on like this anyway. Having John so close, but untouchable. Eventually, John will start dating again, and Sherlock will let him get on with it. But he'll always feel that pang, that deep, hollow feeling of misery, as if someone's placed a cold pebble inside his stomach. It could be fine, what they have now. It could be perfect. What did he have to go and fall in love with John for? He's not sure who he blames more about this sorry state of affairs: John or himself. 

If he doesn't tell John, he'll never _know __._

John sees him looking and smiles, lazy, contented, and Sherlock thinks about curling up next to him, feeling the warm solidity of him, the muscle shifting underneath the bulk of his jumper. Being able to smell him (wool, detergent, maybe traces of soap, John.) Thinks about pressing his lips to John's shoulder, his collarbone, the spot just below his ear, John turning so Sherlock can capture his mouth.  
Oh, well. Now or never.

'John.'  
'Hmm?'

Sherlock's heart is slamming against his ribcage, over and over. His palms are sweaty. He can feel himself teetering on the edge of something, about to tip over into... he's not sure what. Like the clock about to bring in the new year; the game-changer.  
Be sensible. He can't do this. He's managed perfectly well without a romantic relationship to cloud his judgement thus far, he can carry on. John is an asset to him, he can't possibly risk losing him. He'll get over this silly preoccupation, it'll take time, but he'll do it, surely, and Sherlock Holmes does not fall in love, it simply isn't done, he's above such things, and... and...  
'I'm in love with you.' It's done before he can completely talk himself out of it, past his internal barriers, and silence slams down on the room.  
Oh, well. He always did have a reputation for bluntness. 

John is looking rather stunned, apparently failing to process the information he's been given. Sherlock has a sudden absurd desire to tell John to close his mouth, or something might fly into it. (His mother had been fond of that expression.)

Time passes, and eventually John huffs out an incredulous noise, something approaching a laugh. 'I... sorry, what?'  
'I... ah. I've discovered that... during our time together, I've developed feelings for you which after some investigation, I've concluded are of a romantic nature.' Even he's aware of how awkward this sounds. 'I'm in love with you, John. Quite... desperately, in fact,' Sherlock tells the floor. He's not capable of meeting John's gaze at the moment. Pause. 'Very inconvenient.' He risks an upwards glance. John is still staring at him. (Sherlock wonders how it is that he can find even the most inane of expressions endearing when they're plastered across John's face.)  
'Sherlock, if this is some kind of trick or... or experiment...'  
'No.'  
You're in love with me.'  
'Yes.'  
John makes that noise again; that almost-laugh.  
'I'm sorry, I'm... I'm not quite up to speed here. I thought you weren't interested in... all that.'  
'Generally speaking, I'm not. It appears that you're the exception.'  
This was it, now. The end. He takes a deep breath. 'John, I... it would make me tremendously happy if you were willing to continue our current arrangement in spite of this. But if-' he swallows '- if you decide not to, because of this, I understand. You can leave, if you wish. Just - you should know that I don't expect anything. I just wanted to...'  
'Let me cut you off there,' John says.  
Sherlock stops talking, uncharacteristically obedient. John gets up from his chair and crosses the room, over to where Sherlock sits.  
'Stand up.'  
Sherlock gets to his feet, nonplussed.  
John gives him a look. There's something fierce in it, something sad. And something else, something that Sherlock can't dare to hope he recognises.  
And then John gathers Sherlock up against him, silently, and holds him.  
Sherlock can't see John's face any more, but he can hear the regret in his tone when John says 'Why didn't you tell me before?'  
'I - I didn't -' Sherlock's at a loss. What's happening here?  
'I would've done it, Sherlock. I would've ended my marriage then and there, and saved myself several wasted months, if you'd just told me before. I would've dropped everything for you.'  
'So you-'  
'Yes, god, yes, I'm in love with you too. How did you not see that?'  
John pulls away from him a little to look him in the eye, hands on his shoulders. He looks almost tearful.  
'You never said,' Sherlock manages after a while.  
'Neither did you.'  
'But every time someone assumed we were together, you were quick to rid them of that misconception,' Sherlock considers it only fair to point out.  
John sighs. 'I know. I suppose that's fair. I didn't realise at first, and then afterwards... well, everything was complicated. And I didn't want to be reminded, over and over again, of something I couldn't have. I suppose you could call it a defense mechanism. I'm sorry for that.'  
They look at each other. John sighs. 'Six years, Sherlock. We waited six years.' He laughs for real this time. 'God, we're bad at this.'  
Sherlock smiles back. 'I'm sorry.'  
'So am I. But do you think we could make it work, now? Would you be up for that?'  
And that about does it. Something that's been would up tight inside Sherlock suddenly bursts, flooding him with golden light. He pulls John to him again, pushing one hand into his hair, clamping the other one around his waist to draw him closer.  
Warm. Solid. Everything Sherlock could've hoped for. John is warmth and light personified, he thinks deliriously, as John's arms tighten around his waist in turn.  
'Yes,' Sherlock murmurs. 'Yes. I want to. If you'll have me.'  
John squeezes him tighter.  
They become aware of noise, out on the street. Raised voices, laughter.  
' _Nine... eight...' ___  
'We're missing the countdown,' John observes, not letting go.  
'Hmm.' Sherlock does not care about missing the countdown.  
They listen, as the cheer goes up, a few muffled drunken voices raised in song.  
Sherlock kisses the top of John's head, because he's always wanted to do that and now he can, and he does, again and again, until John shifts a little in his grip and tilts his head upwards to bring their mouths together and oh god...  
Oh _god._  
He'd expected that kissing John would have some sort of impact on him, but he hadn't expected anything like this. Kissing anyone in the past had tended to be a rather dull, mildly distasteful exercise; usually done for some sort of personal gain related to a case. It's absurd that performing the exact same action with John Watson should be so significantly different. And yet.  
The experience is almost surreal. The second that John's lips make contact with his own, Sherlock realises that he will never be bored with this. Never. All he wants, literally the only thing he could possibly want in this world is to continue to kiss John Watson. A feeling of warmth floods through him, deep and sweet.  
When John pulls away, still holding him, Sherlock moves to press kisses over his face and neck, almost on auto-pilot.  
John smiles. 'Happy new year.'  
And that's that. They stay where they are, in the living room, until the last of the celebratory noise from outside dies down, and he becomes aware that the desire to explore more of John's skin with his hands and mouth has become too strong to ignore, and that's how he finds himself being led into his bedroom (the only one they'll need now, Sherlock thinks, delighted) the door clicking shut behind them. 

And then there will be cases to solve, and too many dinners out, and kissing on the sofa that's really not big enough to accommodate both of them like this but it doesn't matter. There'll be late nights, and bad films, and John typing up his blog posts while Sherlock wraps both arms around his neck to see what he's written, pressing his lips into his shoulder. One evening, in a have-a-go mood, John will approach Sherlock to ask him to dance, and they'll waltz in the living room, with the curtains open and the door ajar. There'll be happiness.  
He never does get round to cleaning the fridge.


End file.
